


enough of a benediction

by aweekofsaturdays



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adult Stiles Stilinski, Age Difference, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Blow Jobs, D/s, Don't Move, Future Fic, Gentle Dom Chris Argent, Light BDSM, M/M, Missing Scene, Oral Sex, PTSD, Post-Nogitsune, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Recovery, Slow Build, Training, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 14:33:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4628871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aweekofsaturdays/pseuds/aweekofsaturdays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris’ thumb brushes lightly in circles at his neck, soothing the taut muscles and smoothing over the short hairs there. Stiles hadn’t noticed but now he can feel it sifting away something with every pass, can feel the edge behind his eyes easing, can feel something else climbing in his gut with the continuity of the touch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	enough of a benediction

The pressure at the nape of Stiles’ neck holds him down, firm and unyielding. His hair prickles at the heat, though not shaved as close as when he was a teenager; he’s older now and feels like he doesn’t quite remember who he sees looking back at him sometimes, can’t quite recognize himself in early-morning light. 

Chris’ wide hands are calloused and warm, pressing roughly into skin that’s a little bit tanned, a little bit soft, fine peach fuzz that would create a bit of a halo in the right light. His thumb and his middle finger bracket Stiles’ neck, each touching a mole and feeling as though they’re forcing some kind of conduit, sinking right through his skin. Chris holds him firmly, pressing down lightly, a reminder. 

Stiles’ eyes drift closed, his hands lax on his knees, fingers twitching at intervals. His mouth hangs open, lips slack as he focuses on the pressure. _One, two_. A squeeze, just enough from Chris to remind him he’s there. Again, it repeats. And again, in time with their breaths. It keeps going, endless, soothing. 

The chair creaks as Stiles shifts his weight, waiting, breath coming slowly. He can’t remember how long he’s been here, how long he’s been sitting with Chris’ palm grounding him just-so, how long he’s been waiting. 

He came here in a rush, scrambling out of the Jeep in his haste, needing something to keep him from flying apart; and now the urgency he felt when he walked in has slowed, winding away into something dark and warm at the pit of his stomach, waiting and reverberating in intervals as he remembers why he’s there. 

Every time he starts to think, starts to panic, starts to breathe faster, Chris catches it, even sometimes before he starts to tense - and presses down, squeezes. _One, two_. It helps and Stiles breathes, sinking back down, and even though his actual body moves maybe an inch in the whole stretch of interminable time between ups and downs he feels as though he’s been running for miles and miles and hadn’t realized his legs couldn’t work anymore. Each time he sinks lower and lower after, each time the panic takes longer to wind its way through him, each time he feels it coming on slower and slower, molasses-thick and inexorable. 

Stiles doesn’t know how much time has passed ( _one, two_ ) when he realizes he doesn’t feel the wave rising anymore, when he feels more of his hand pressed against the rough scratch of his jeans than the bile surging around in his gut. He tries to raise his head and Chris gently puts him down again, and this time without the panic welling up to dull it, Stiles shivers - something in him curling up to meet the pressure when it’s not coated with the sheen of anxiety. 

Chris’ thumb brushes lightly in circles at his neck, soothing the taut muscles and smoothing over the short hairs there. Stiles hadn’t noticed but now he can feel it sifting away something with every pass, can feel the edge behind his eyes easing, can feel something else climbing in his gut with the continuity of the touch.

“A- again,” Stiles stutters out, hoarse, the first words, and he tips his head back just enough. “P-please.”

The hand on his neck hesitates, and Stiles can feel the moment when something changes, when something bends instead of breaking, when Chris’ thumb starts to rub firmer circles over the tendon of his neck and Stiles groans, quietly. For the closest, quietest, most perfect moment, his mind slips, going somewhere else for a split second, and then comes back. Startled, his eyes snap open, and all he sees is darkness, and he panics before realizing that the sun’s gone down, he can see outlines, he’s not blind, everything is OK -- and Chris’ other hand comes down on his shoulder, thumbs anchoring between his shoulders and pressing, just two points of unyielding pressure, digging in right there and just so and Stiles feels the pressure pooling in him, burning upward, reminding him of how far he has yet to go. 

He leans his head back, the tip of his nose tracking his upward progress, one excruciatingly slow tilt until he can see Chris, see his jaw clenched tight and his eyes burning. Chris looks like he doesn’t know quite how he got here behind Stiles, like he’s half-forgotten why his hands are on Stiles, and yet something about the way he stands, the immovable force of him, makes it clear that he wouldn’t--couldn’t--leave if his life depended on it. That something about him is as drawn to the strength of this kind of reassurance, this aching reaffirmation, as Stiles is, and that maybe he needs to be pressing as much as Stiles needs to be pressed. 

They hold there, face to face in an odd roundabout way, waiting for something to break. And then. Ever so slowly - his hands tighten. _One, two_. The same rhythm feels significant, trembling, and Stiles’ head dips again, chin coming down to meet his chest, neck exposed and so narrow, so fragile. Chris’ hands come up to cradle his jaw from behind, his throat, thumbs slowly rubbing out tension, fingertips rasping against Stiles’ hairline; he just barely grazes his ears and Stiles shivers, feeling his stomach clench and heat pool lower and lower. Stiles feels himself harden, slowly, feels again the rough weave of his jeans against his fingertips. 

Chris’ hands leave him briefly and Stiles makes a small sound, unwillingly, mouth open as if to ask a question although he doesn’t know what he’d even ask for. He feels the air move as Chris comes around in front of him and squats, and he’s almost afraid to raise his gaze again. But he does, of course he does, and Chris is staring, greedily, drinking in the sight of his skin and Stiles knows he looks shellshocked, knows that nothing has even happened and he’s already a mess, knows that this is the tipping point and this is the moment when fires start, when deals are made with the devil. 

He sees Chris’ hands rise and almost chokes, wants them on him so badly, wants them everywhere and yet he’s scared, isn’t sure -- and Chris’ hands cover his own, on his knees, the most innocent of places -- and Stiles suddenly feels that same pressure and that same relief. The fear recedes and all that’s left is this buzzing, so much of it, running through his hands trapped between his own knees and Chris’ dry palms, running up through his chest until he feels like he can’t breathe but he doesn’t even care, and it’s him that leans forward, him that licks his lips, hesitates for only a moment - and presses his lips to Chris’ own. 

There’s a moment of awkwardness, and then a familiarity sweeps in, a “hi honey” feeling of comfort before Stiles lets his lips soften, lets everything go and Chris’ tongue touches his, tentatively. Stiles tries to move his hands, wanting to touch and suddenly Chris’ mouth is gone and Stiles opens his eyes to a blaze of blue eyes narrowing as Chris presses, holding him where he is, looking like something not quite safe; and Stiles catches his breath because he gets how it’s going to be and he gets that it’s his choice and he could leave, he could go back to his life and -- then he would never have this. 

Mouth dark, soft - he looks Chris right in the eye and nods. He gets something back that isn’t quite a smile, isn’t a smirk, but is something in between, something that says to him that that was all he was waiting for before he’s kissed thoroughly again and this time Chris grips tightly around Stiles’ wrists, but Stiles leaves his hands on his thighs, waiting for direction. He wants- wants to be good, knows he has so much to make up for, knows he needs this to feel at home again, a conscious surrendering of something bigger than himself. 

Stiles waits; he is so patient and so good and if anyone saw him they’d almost wonder who he was, unmoving and gaze steady and doing so, so well. Chris’ hands feel better on him now that he’s able to pay attention without the press of fear rising, a singular focus traveling up his arms back to his shoulders, and Chris squeezes again - the pressure almost unbearable, as if Stiles is being tested, malleable like clay. Something must click for Chris, must sink in as “this is ok,” because he’s kissing Stiles again and there is something so buoyant about this kiss, a filthiness and a humor that Stiles had not expected. But when Stiles starts to kiss back, starts to match him, Chris pulls away and Stiles is left gaping, confused. 

He starts to get the picture with the pass of one of Chris’ large palms over the front of his jeans; they can both feel him hard there, firm and rubbing against the inside of the fabric with little twitches he didn’t even know he was making. “Stiles.” Chris speaks quietly, hoarse and Stiles hears the reminder, stills himself and waits. Chris unzips his jeans, taps him to lift his hips to pull them down just enough to let his dick bob free but keep his knees constricted. And it’s so not fair because Stiles wants to spread out as wide as he can, wants to show off, but he’s being good now, so good, and wants to show that he can stay even if he wants to move. 

Chris ducks his head down and Stiles gasps, twitch when all he gets are kittenish licks at the tip, dainty and teasing and torturous, and so, so intentional. Chris finally gives in and goes to work and every time Stiles moves, every time there is even a millimeter of a flinch, Chris makes as if to pull off and Stiles is learning, is getting better at controlling it, knows he’s not supposed to move and it’s excruciating but he’s trying so hard. He’s getting closer and knows Chris can feel it, somehow knows how to bring him to the edge and then ease him off, and a muscle in Stiles’ thigh is twitching now and he can’t stop it but Chris doesn’t seem to care. 

Chris grabs one of Stiles’ hands from where it’s leaving crescent moon nail marks at the top one of his thighs, and drags it to the back of his own neck, squeezing his palm over Stiles’ and meeting his eyes as he pulls his mouth off and jerks one rough hand over Stiles’ dick. Chris’ mouth is wet and he’s panting, and Stiles is dragged closer, can smell Chris for the first time, can practically feel the ozone coming off him as he stares Stiles down, lips puffy and wrecked - and Stiles shivers and thinks of that beard scraping over his stomach, his chest- and he comes harder than he’s ever come in his life, clenching and unloading into Chris’ hand, shivering as the sensation keeps going and going and collapsing into the chair, hips still helplessly thrusting up against Chris’ warm palm. 

It tapers, and he whimpers, his first sound, as everything gets too sensitive, and Chris slows, gentling him and leaning closer to nuzzle close and press kisses down his chest through his t-shirt. He rests his forehead against Stiles’ sternum, sinking in the scent of Stiles’ orgasm and he tenses, his other hand pressing harshly against the front of his jeans, and shudders, letting go in one heave as he sinks there and Stiles’ hand comes up to wind through his hair and hold him through his own orgasm. 

They surface slowly, Chris breathing hotly on Stiles’ skin where his shirt has rucked up, Stiles with his hands buried in Chris’ hair and sprawled back in the chair, boneless. In a moment there will be cleanup and reassurances, and everything will be quiet in both of them for a little while, now that something has been exorcised - and someday soon the circle will turn again and maybe they’ll find themselves back here. For now the moment is held unshattered, as breath comes slower and holds begin to gentle, and Chris’ nose in Stiles’ hip feels like enough of a benediction for now. 

Stiles feels the chill of the hair on his damp skin as Chris begins to pull away, wiping his hand god knows where and straightening up. Stiles feels the sweat in the well of his his collarbones, at the tops of his cheeks, on his upper lip; his eyes flutter open, working to adjust in the dim light. Chris avoids eye contact steadily, giving Stiles a minute to come back to himself, to remember where all of this began and sit with it, to gather his limbs close and make sure everything is still in working order. Stiles stops shuddering finally, reaches out one slim hand to touch Chris’s jaw gently. 

“Thanks,” he says softly. 

“Anytime,” Chris answers gruffly.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [tumblr](http://aweekofsaturdays.tumblr.com)! You can also reblog [here](http://aweekofsaturdays.tumblr.com/post/127296373377/enough-of-a-benediction-aweekofsaturdays-teen).
> 
> Comments adored ;)


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